


Unbroken, Unbound.

by juniperandjawbones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Boats and Ships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hawke (Dragon Age) Sided with Mages, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Past Rape/Non-con, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Slavery, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperandjawbones/pseuds/juniperandjawbones
Summary: I am teaching myself how to be free.- "Various Storms and Saints," Florence + The MachineAstrid Hawke is the spark that ignited a powderkeg, erupting in a blaze of chaos across the Free Marches.Fenris thought vengeance would bring him peace but found it only left a larger void, filled with still more questions.As they leave Kirkwall behind and journey to Tevinter together, they will find answers, forge new friendships, and discover the purpose hidden within their wounds.**A note regarding trigger warnings: This fic will vaguely reference Fenris's canon history as a slave from time to time, including mentions of past abuse of all stripes (physical, emotional, and sexual). It is not my plan to go into a great amount of detail, but I want to be sensitive about giving proper warning in case it is an issue for some. Be good to yourself and get a pre-reader, if needed! <3
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

“Hawke.”

Fenris’s green gaze softened as he looked at the woman standing on his stoop. Astrid Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, turned her chin up to peer at him from under the hood of her traveling cloak, which had become heavily speckled in the gentle rain falling from the cloud-darkened evening sky.

He’d been expecting her, though he hadn’t been certain exactly when. Halfway to the bottom of a bottle of wine, the familiar sound of her knuckles against the rough wood of his front door had jarred him out of his thoughts, making him jump.

It had been three days since he’d seen her last. Three long, lonely days, spent mostly in a fog of pain or exhaustion or some combination of the two. The battle between the Templars and the Circle had drained them all, he knew, but the consequences of his efforts had lingered, agonizing, like shards of glass in his skin.

Each day brought a little more relief. The longer he was away from magic, the better he felt. But he was exhausted still, feeling the fatigue in his very bones. The wine brought welcome warmth to his cheeks, and he’d planned to finish the bottle and retire early, hoping to get some restful sleep for the first time in weeks.

Instead, he now stood at his door, looking into the pair of eyes he’d most missed seeing these past few days. Large, pale blue doe eyes that would have made Hawke look childlike and naive, had they not been bookended by laugh lines and framed with bags underneath that betrayed her age and restless lifestyle. The day-old kohl that ringed her lids had become smudged and uneven. He wondered if she’d slept more than a few minutes at a time since the last time they’d spoken.

She cocked an eyebrow, gesturing at the interior of the mansion. “Are you going to invite me in, or just let me stand out here in the wet all night while you ogle?”

“Forgive me,” he replied. “I’ve missed the view.” He stepped back and opened the door wide, allowing her to duck past him, a smile curving her lips as she rolled her eyes.

Astrid made a beeline for the upper level, stripping her cloak off as she strode along, eager for the warmth of the fire she knew would be lit inside the largest bedroom.

Closing the door behind her, Fenris turned and followed. He felt like he’d spent his entire free life like this, trailing in her quick footsteps, wondering where they would lead him this time. “Straight into trouble” had been the answer, more often than not. Still, he thought to himself, watching her ample hips and thighs move beneath her leggings as she mounted the stairs, there were worse ways to pass one’s time.

Astrid flung her cloak onto an unlit wall sconce and turned to face him. She had a way of looking at people—looking _through_ them—which was both endearing and unnerving. Her steel blue gaze bore into him, trying to gauge his mood before she spoke. She had been careful not to coddle him in the years since he’d killed Hadriana, but the concern was evident on her face.

“Are you… _how_ are you?” she asked, taking a tentative step toward him. Fenris gave a small shrug, then winced. A sharp pain across his stomach told him that the deep gash underneath his tunic had opened again, and the fatigue leftover from battle had robbed him of his ability to maintain his usual stoicism.

“Hurt, but I’ll live,” he said, knowing she had seen him flinch. No point in lying.

Astrid shifted her weight, resting a hand on her jutting hip. Fenris noticed for the first time that she had a small bag slung over her shoulder. He took in her skeptical expression, her mouth quirked up into something between a smirk and a frown. No point in downplaying his injuries either, it would seem. She’d come on a mission.

“Those Templars turned you into their personal pincushion,” she said. “You’re bleeding right through your shirt.” He didn’t have to look down to know she was correct—he could feel the fabric sticking to his skin where the wound had begun to weep again. Heaving a playfully dramatic sigh, he sank into a comfortable armchair.

“All right,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head to expose the cuts and scratches across his chest and sides. He tossed it away. “It’s clear I’m not going to win this battle, so let’s just get it over with.” He spread his arms open as if to surrender, the ghost of a grin on his lips.

Astrid looked almost apologetic as she crossed to him and removed the bag from her shoulder, setting it on the table next to him and pulling out tinctures, herbs, and bandaging.

“It’s just… you never ask for help, Fenris,” she said softly. “And look at you. Some of these are quite deep. I don’t want to see you survive everything you’ve been through only to die from something as anticlimactic as gangrene. Think of Varric’s readers.”

His grin widened. He knew she’d probably been wanting to say this for days, and the fact that she had managed to control an impulse for once was a testament to how much she cared.

Following the battle, Fenris had spent the first night at the Hawke Estate—not because of any insistence on her part; he’d simply been too exhausted to make the journey across Hightown to his own mansion. She hadn’t asked him then if he wanted her to tend to his wounds. She had known his markings were in agony, and that her magic—even the healing kind—would only make things worse. Any unnecessary physical touch had out of the question. He had barely been able to articulate his needs through his pain.

And so she had gently undressed him from his armor, lightly bandaged his wounds after confirming nothing was life-threatening, and then helped him into her bed. That whole night, she’d lain there beside him, awake but silent, moving only to get him drinks of water and tend the fire. Ordinarily, Astrid was a hummingbird, flitting from one place to the next, never hovering more than a moment in one spot. In all their years together, he’d never seen her be still for so long as she had been that night.

She’d needed to leave early the following morning to attend to some sort of business with Varric, and once she’d gone, he had slipped off to his mansion to recover alone, not wanting to rob her of another night’s sleep.

Headstrong and impetuous though she may be, if there was one thing Astrid was good at, it was taking a hint. She had given him three full days to rest on his own, but now her concern had evidently won out.

He found he didn’t mind.

Squinting, she kneeled in front of him and examined the deep cut across his belly, which was now bleeding freely onto his golden-brown skin. She gave it a gentle prod with her fingers.

She had beautiful hands, he thought to himself. Most would have agreed with this assessment, were it not for the ragged edges of her nails, which she’d bitten down to their beds. This detail didn’t change his own opinion, however. She had strong, skillful fingers that still managed a grace and delicacy he wouldn’t have associated with hands like hers. And he knew what they were capable of, on the battlefield and off.

“I should close this,” she said, looking up and derailing his train of thought. “It’s going to take a long time to heal on its own, and who knows how many shirts you’ll have ruined by then.”

“Go on, then,” Fenris replied. He watched her dab an astringent-smelling tincture on the wound. For a brief moment, it stung horribly, causing him to draw in a sharp hiss between his teeth. Immediately afterward, however, the pain dulled considerably. Another sharply-scented liquid went into one of her cupped hands, and she spread it carefully over her fingers, cleansing them.

Scrunching one eyelid closed, she held a needle up to the firelight and deftly poked a length of thick black thread through its small eye. Then, with gentle fingers, she brought the edges of the wound together and began to stitch, the very tip of her pink tongue poking out from between her lips in concentration. He barely felt the needle moving in and out, but the thread pulling at him, drawing his skin taut, was a strange sensation.

“Hawke,” he said after a moment’s silence, watching her nimble fingers work.

“Hmmm?” She didn’t look up, working quickly but carefully, making sure she kept adequate tension on the thread and knitting his wound together with measured, even stitches.

“Can you do a little decorative pattern? Maybe a fleur de lis?”

Astrid snorted and glanced up briefly.

“Do I seem the sort of girl who’d’ve patiently sat through needlework lessons?” she asked, smiling. “Besides, can you imagine what Isabela would say if she knew you had a fancy flower embroidered on your torso?”

“I can, actually,” Fenris said, with a wry smile. He attempted a mimicry of the seafarer’s sultry voice. “‘What, did you lose a fight with an Orlesian upholsterer?’”

They both chuckled, the first time they’d shared even a small laugh in a long time. There hadn’t been much to find joy in for many weeks. Astrid looked up again.

“Hold still,” she scolded, still smiling. “I can’t stitch while you’re laughing.”

Fenris drew a deep breath and held it, pursing his lips together and furrowing his brow in an expression of comically determined seriousness. He arched an eyebrow and turned toward her, skin purpling with the effort.

Astrid laughed again, this time a genuine belly laugh, loud and clear and beautiful, and contagious as always. He let out his breath in his own low, throaty chortle, and soon they had both dissolved into laughter. She leaned sideways against his leg, her head bowed against his knee and her stitching hand in the air as her shoulders shook with giggles. His own laugh mellowed as she looked up at him again, her eyes wet from their shared mirth.

Her face relaxed into a gentle grin as she collected herself. Fenris returned the smile.

“It’s good to see you happy,” she said.

He leaned back against the chair again, his lean muscles relaxing as he took a deep breath. “It’s good to _be_ happy, Hawke.”

Their grins lingered as her focus returned to his wound, bleeding anew after their moment of laughter. She gently wiped it clean and resumed her stitches. Fenris watched _her_ this time, rather than just her fingers. She had changed so much since they’d met. The passing of time, combined with her constant levity, had drawn lines around her eyes that crinkled when she smiled.

And her hair was much longer. Constant battles and negotiation attempts between Qunari and human, Templar and mage had meant little time for something so frivolous as a hair cut. It hung well past the middle of her back now, in tangled ginger-colored waves still wet from the rain. She wore it halfway up most days, the bits at each of her temples drawn back toward the crown of her head in a pair of tight braids against her scalp.

Privately, he thought the longer hair suited her, but he knew it wasn’t his place to say so. It was her head, after all. He’d just have to enjoy it while he could, before she realized she now had the time to have someone cut it short again.

He allowed his mind to wander, thinking about what it would look like if she let it all down, falling like water over her fair collarbones. He imagined intertwining his long fingers through it, feeling the soft strands slip between them. A gentle stirring below his belt made him stop short, coming back to reality and watching her tie off her thread, his wound neatly closed.

Astrid stood, putting the needle away and taking up the bottle of astringent tincture again, leaning over to dab at the smaller cuts on his chest.

He watched her work, musing over how strange it always felt to see her without some manner of armor. She had put on a plain tunic and leather leggings today, and when she bent over the way she was now, he could catch glimpses of her smallclothes down the opening, which she hadn’t bothered to lace very snugly.

The sleeping dragon in his loins stirred again, and he deliberately looked away. It seemed the wine was beginning to get to him now.

Her touch was light and gentle as she worked, carefully avoiding contact with his markings. She meticulously dabbed every little cut she saw, working on his chest and belly first, then making him turn away from her so she could tend to his back where some flanking blows had caught him.

He was glad at the excuse to look at something else, something that didn’t have a soft, curving waist and round, firm breasts he’d been aching to touch again for months. But the sparsely furnished room, with its corners strung with cobwebs and its dirty, rain-spattered windows, offered him little distraction, and he still found it hard to keep his mind from meandering back to her. His fingertips seemed to have memories of their own, vividly recalling the warmth of her skin as he inhaled the familiar scent of amber perfume that followed in her wake.

He straddled the chair backward, arms crossed over its ornately carved back, rubbing at one of the lyrium markings on the back of his hand and distracting himself with the discomfort to keep from getting too carried away. Finally, she told him he was free to turn around again, and he obliged, grabbing the wine bottle as he settled back in his chair.

“Drink?” he asked, offering it to her.

She made a motion to take it, then noticed her red scarf still wrapped around his outstretched wrist. He saw a momentary hesitation stall her fingertips as she reached toward it.

“You still wear this.” It wasn’t a question, he noticed, but an observation she made in a tone heavy with unspoken emotion. “You’ve had it on ever since… ever since that night.”

She’d given it to him the night he’d left her, a thousand lifetimes ago, it seemed. She hadn’t spoken—just gently stopped him as he made to leave the room, taken his arm, and tied the scarf around his wrist.

Words hadn’t been necessary. Both of them knew what it meant.

_I’ll wait._

And wait she had, despite Anders’ flirtatious advances and the temptation of comfort in Isabela’s bed. She had never wavered in her fidelity, and he’d never removed the scarf.

He’d returned to her eventually, once he’d found the sense to do so. _Maker_ , he’d been stupid. They’d ended up where they needed to be, he supposed, but still...

Astrid looked up, interrupting the half-formed thought playing at the edge of his brain.

“Why?” she asked. “You came back to me. Why continue to wear it?”

It was a reasonable question. Fenris swallowed hard, trying to articulate the answer.

“Comfort, I suppose,” he said after a long pause.

“Comfort?” She was giving him that piercing look again.

He cast his eyes elsewhere, studying the stonework on the fireplace as he considered how to explain. “When you’re not with me, it… reminds me. That you waited. That you were faithful. It gives me peace when you’re not here.”

Her gaze softened around the edges.

“Well… I’ve been thinking. What if I _wasn’t_ ever not with you?” she asked, reaching to take the bottle now. “It’s about time we got you out of this rattrap anyway. It’s damp and cold as a well digger’s ass in here.” She took a swig and leaned a hip against the table.

“Do you want… are you asking me to move in with you?” There was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“Well, no. Not exactly. I don’t think I can stay in Kirkwall, or even in the Free Marches, after all this.”

“You’re leaving?” Fenris asked, astonished. “You worked so hard to get the estate back after your uncle squandered the Amell fortune. I’d have thought you’d want to grow old there, to keep it in the family when you… if you have children of your own. Someday.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. Neither of them had ever brought up children before. There was a long pause, during which he wanted nothing more than to snatch the words out of the air and stuff them back into his idiotic mouth again.

“Well. That was awkward,” she finally said, the shadow of a grin on her lips. Fenris cleared his throat, looking anywhere but her eyes.

She took another drink, a long one this time, shrugging her shoulders in a halfhearted up-and-own. “I do want to stay. Kirkwall has been my home for most of a decade. Everyone I have left is here. But I don’t see how that’s an option just now, given everything. The estate will stay in the Hawke family name, and I’ve entrusted Varric to stay there and hire caretakers to help maintain it while I’m gone.”

“How long do you expect to be away?”

“No idea. Maybe I won’t ever return.” She stared contemplatively at the bottle, frowning at the thought. “I get the feeling this battle was just a taste of what’s to come. Tensions between the Circles and the Templars have been running high for an age now. I fear I may have been the kindling both sides were looking for to light the blaze. We’ll need— _I’ll_ need to leave. To go into hiding, at least for a little while. The Chantry will be after my blood.” She raised her eyebrows. “Good thing they never got hold of a phylactery on me, or I’d mean that quite literally.”

He rolled the wine cork underneath his palm over the smooth, polished oak tabletop, watching it spin as he considered this idea. Of course, she was right. He hadn’t had the sense of mind to stop and think about it, what with all that had been paining him for the last several days, but there wasn’t any way she could stay in the city. Not after what they had started.

“Are you asking me to come with you?” he asked, not looking up.

“Yes.” She set the bottle back down with a gentle thunk. There was another pregnant pause. “But please don’t answer me tonight. Think about it first. I want you to be sure.”

_I want you to be sure._

Fenris tried to avoid reading deeper meaning into this. Still, cold, heavy shame flooded his heart again as he thought about his decision to run away from her all those years ago, to leave her waiting for him, all the while never knowing why, wondering what she’d done wrong.

“It’s not going to be easy,” she went on. “We’ll be on the run, camping in the wild, living off the land and trying not to stay in one place for too long. I wish I didn’t have to ask, but I just can’t stay. And I can’t fathom anyplace else feeling like… feeling like _home_ if it’s not with you.”

He let the words linger in the air for a moment before he responded.

“How long before you depart?”

“A week, at most,” she replied, now averting her gaze and gathering the various tinctures and potions together, packing them carefully in her bag and padding them with bandaging material to keep them from breaking. “I can’t linger more than necessary. But I won’t leave without hearing from you first. Come talk to me whenever you’re ready.”

She leaned over, one hand gently resting over the red scarf around his wrist and the other cupping his jaw, careful not to touch his markings. Her lips brushed his temple, and he felt the stirring in his loins again. But before he could decide whether to turn and kiss her for real, she was already pulling away from him and turning, grabbing her cloak off the sconce and swinging it around her.

“Keep those stitches dry,” she advised over her shoulder.

And then she was through the door and down the steps, and his cowardly feet wouldn't chase her, and the clicking of the latch at the front of the mansion told him she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

“We have the tent packed, cooking supplies gathered, plenty of potions and injury kits, some rations to get started, certainly no shortage of weapons… I think we’re almost ready to leave when the time comes.”

Astrid crossed a few items off a list scribbled on a piece of paper in her messy hand, talking aloud to her Mabari hound, Rafael, as she did. The dog lay at her feet on top of an ornate rug, drooling and chewing with gusto on a large lamb bone, ignoring her completely.

“A mount would be nice, but it would be another mouth to feed, and I can’t see us being very inconspicuous on horses.” She paused, the nib of her quill hovering over the word _apples_ and dripping a fat black ink droplet onto her list. “If there’s even an ‘us’ to consider.” She added a question mark next to the word, the pointed tip of the quill scratching softly against the surface.

A thundering knock sounded down in the entry hall, followed by Rafael’s loud, booming bark as he bounded out the study door and down the stairs, ears standing alert and tail wagging, his bone forgotten.

Astrid tossed her quill down haphazardly, spattering more ink on the list, and hurried after him. She knew that knock. Stomach twisting itself into knots, she bustled across the entry hall and pulled open the small window at the top of the large wooden door, peering out. Fenris looked back at her from the front step and gave a short wave. Closing the tiny square shutter again, Astrid took a huge breath, steeling herself as she grasped the cool iron of the handle and pulled open the door.

“Hello,” she said, smiling up at his lanky figure silhouetted against the pink-orange fire of the blooming Kirkwall sunset. Stepping aside, she gestured toward the inside of the estate. “Come in.”

Rafael bounced up to meet Fenris by the fire in the entry hall, standing on his hind legs and placing his huge paws on the elf’s shoulders. Astrid closed the door, her heart pounding against her rib cage. 

_What if he says no?_

She’d asked this question in her mind at least a hundred times since their conversation two nights previous, and even wondered it aloud to Varric the following day as they worked on packing provisions for her journey.

“Nug shit,” he’d replied curtly, shoving Rafael’s nose out of a bag of hardtack. “The only thing that loves you more than that elf is this sodding dog. He’ll come with you, or I’m the next Paragon.”

But as confident as the dwarf had been, Astrid still had her doubts.

She had forgiven Fenris long ago. For leaving, for the moments of suffocating silence in the years that followed, all their unspoken feelings weighing down the air between them until she found it difficult to draw a breath. For the nights spent lying awake, eyes pressed swollen and aching against a pillow soaked with tears.

She’d forgiven, but not forgotten, and she found herself bracing for another heartbreak as she watched the elf ruffle Rafael’s ears, a grin on his lips as the dog let out a low, happy growl.

“Yes, such a _vicious_ beast you are.” He turned to look at Astrid. “He acts like he hasn’t seen me in a month.”

“Well,” she replied, “it _has_ been almost a week. And the last time he saw you, you were in a lot of pain. You couldn’t have noticed, of course, but he sat awake with us all night, on the floor at the foot of the bed. He was quite concerned.”

The dog gave a small whine as if to agree, then pawed insistently at the elf’s arm. 

“Rafe, that’s enough. Leave him be.”

At the sound of Astrid’s voice, the enormous dog reluctantly but obediently returned all four paws to the ground and lay down in front of the hearth, staring from one person to the other and back again. 

Fenris turned his moss-green gaze to meet hers. She held it for a fraction of a second before looking away toward the upper level of the estate. She needed a drink.

“I was just about to have a glass or six of wine. Want to join me?”

“Not just yet.” He took a step forward. “I want to talk.”

Astrid drew a deep breath, nodding. Her thumbnail found its way between her teeth, and she chewed on it as Fenris began to untie the red scarf around his wrist.

“Fen, what… what are you doing?” she asked after a moment, feeling a stinging sensation behind her eyes.

“I’m taking this off,” he told her, picking at the tight knot. “I won’t be needing it any longer.”

He looked up from his wrist, and she felt a hot tear betray her, spilling over her pink cheek. Her bottom lip threatened to quiver, and she bit down on it, willing it to be still. 

Frowning, Fenris reached toward her and wiped the tear away with one thumb. “Hawke, no, you misunderstand. It’s my fault, I’m not wording this very well.”

She frowned. “You’re not really ‘wording it’ at all.”

“You’re right,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m not any good at this part. Not that I need to tell _you_ that.” Pausing, he drew a slow breath. “You asked me many years ago if I thought I could ever make a home in Kirkwall. I said I could see myself staying for the right reasons. Did you never wonder why I chose to remain even after Danarius was no longer a threat? It certainly wasn’t for the culture.”

A wry smile crossed his lips, and he took her hand in his, squeezing it earnestly.

“Before we took on the Templars, do you remember what I said to you?” he asked her, his eyes now locked on hers. She met them this time, and nodded again. She’d replayed those words in her head so many times these last few days, trying to reassure herself. “I told you that meeting you was the most important thing that had ever happened to me. That I couldn’t bear the thought of living without you. I meant it. I will follow you to the Sundered Sea and back if it means being by your side.”

Astrid drew herself to him, buried her face in his chest, and allowing the tears to fall as relief washed over her. She felt his strong arms wrap themselves around her, enveloping her in a tight embrace.

He didn’t pull away, waiting instead for her to let him know she was ready. When she finally did draw herself up to full height again, wiping at the wet tracks on her eyes with the hem of her sleeve, he smoothed a loose strand of ginger-colored hair from her forehead and planted a soft kiss where it had been. Then he took half a step back, resuming his work with the favor tied around his wrist.

“I won’t need this if I have you with me every day,” he told her, pulling at the knot. She watched as his pleasant half-smile turned into a thin line of concentration, then a frustrated frown. “Except the damn... thing... won’t... budge. _Fenedhis_!”

“Here, let me.” Standing on the tips of her toes in front of the mantle, she reached behind a clock, felt around blindly for a brief second, and then brought out a small dagger—one of several weapons she kept scattered in hiding places throughout the mansion, in case she was ever accosted at home. 

She offered her open hand to him, and he placed his wrist in her grip. With one swift jerk of the blade, the red scarf fell away. Fenris held it in his fingers for a brief moment, running a thumb over the ragged fabric.

“It’s probably covered in sweat, blood, and darkspawn spit anyway,” he said finally, shrugging before tossing it casually into the fire. It blazed brightly for a few seconds, then disappeared, leaving behind nothing but ash. “Honestly, sometimes all it reminded me of was my stupidity, leaving the way I did. I was a fool.”

Astrid shook her head. “You just needed time, Fenris. When you came back to me, I knew you were ready. I knew things would be okay. Never apologize for knowing you needed the space to figure out what you wanted.”

“I’m not sure what I did to deserve you,” he told her, turning back to her with a smile, “But I’m glad I did it.”

“Say, do you want to go to the market with me before it closes?” asked Astrid brightly, suddenly remembering her list.

“The market? Now?” he replied, looking bemused. “It’ll be dark soon. What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

A smile lit up her face as she took his hand. “I want to buy some fruit.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NSFW*

The market was quiet, most of the sound coming from merchants beginning to pack up their wares and shutter their stalls for the night. Astrid found a grocer and purchased a small wheel of cheese and a sack of fresh apples, their glossy, rosy skin reflecting the waning sunlight overhead. She also purchased some bread from her favorite baker and a couple of lemon-soaked cakes for breakfast. Fenris, meanwhile, had excused himself for a short time and returned with something concealed in paper, unwilling to tell her what he’d purchased.

“It’s a surprise,” he told her, with a tone that indicated that was that.

She abandoned her line of questioning and adopted a playful look of defeat. They turned back to the Hightown courtyard, hand in hand. Looking in the direction of Fenris’ mansion, Astrid spoke up again.

“Do we need to gather your things tomorrow? I’d like to leave before the week’s end.”

Fenris shook his head. The only things left in that mansion now were moth-eaten furnishings, empty bottles, and bad memories. He turned his gaze to her fingers, woven between his, like they’d always belonged there.

“Everything I need is right here,” he said. After a moment’s pause, he added, “Except Rafe. I’d be sad if we left him behind.”

She grinned. “Of course he’s coming. I couldn’t leave that idiot behind, even if I tried. He’d just catch up on his own after a few days.”

They walked up to the familiar stoop with the Amell Crest hanging over the ornate wooden door, and Astrid let them in. She walked the sack of apples to the kitchen and set them in the cupboard next to their other rations for the journey. She’d told Orana, her cook and housemaid, to go on home for the evening, so supper would be a simple affair. Choosing a particularly round and rosy apple, she gave it a shine on her sleeve and set it on a platter along with the cheese and bread.

From the entry hall, she heard Fenris call out, “Bring some goblets!”

Curious, she took down two from a high shelf and walked back out of the warm kitchen. Fenris wasn’t in the entry hall any longer. She saw him peering over the railing at her from above, on the upper floor of the mansion. He tipped her a wink, then turned and walked into her bedroom. Cocking an eyebrow, Astrid followed, glasses gently clinking together in one hand as she climbed the stairs with the platter balanced on her hip with the other.

He’d set the tall, paper-wrapped item on a table near the bedroom fire, and he held out his hands for the glasses. She handed them over obediently and set the supper tray down on top of the table. Standing by the fire with her hands on her hips, she watched.

“Are you going to tell me what this is?” she asked, amused.

Fenris was looking delighted with himself. He took up the mysterious item and began to unwrap it with a flourish. Underneath the paper covering was a green bottle, its smooth, reflective surface etched with an ornate silver filigree pattern. He held it up triumphantly, looking eager for a response.

“What is that? It looks far too fancy to be found in a Kirkwall market.”

“It’s a fine sparkling wine from Orlais. It’s what they drink to celebrate special occasions. Danarius used to serve it sometimes. I always wanted to try some, but I never had the coin. Or anyone worth sharing it with.”

He was busy working at the cork now, twisting off a copper wire that had been bound around it. “The wine merchant warned me to point it away from me when I opened it,” he explained, aiming the bottle toward a blank stretch of wall.

He placed his thumbs on the lip of the bottleneck and pressed them outward. With a loud pop, the cork shot out and ricocheted off the wall, bouncing along the stone floor as a thin stream of foam streamed from the top of the bottle, splashing onto the hearth. Rafael gave it a sniff and then lapped it up, his tail whipping back and forth with excitement.

Fenris carefully poured a glass and handed it to her. Hundreds of tiny bubbles rose to the top of the pale golden liquid, sparkling like little diamonds in the firelight. Ales had fizz, but nothing like this. It looked positively alive with effervescence, with an aroma similar to white wine—fruity and crisp.

“Careful, now,” he advised her, as he poured his own glass. “I hear those bubbles go straight to your head.”

Astrid lifted the glass to her lips and took a tentative sip. The cool drink was sweeter and more refreshing than any other wine she’d ever drunk, and it tickled her nose as she swallowed. A soft giggle escaped her lips, and Fenris looked up at her.

“You like it?” he asked, beaming.

She nodded. “It’s wonderful! Wait ‘til you feel the tickle.”

“Let’s do the thing properly,” answered Fenris, lifting his glass toward her. His face became earnest. “To the most beautiful woman in all of Thedas, and to many more nights spent together.”

A red flush that had nothing to do with the wine crept up Astrid’s face as they clinked their goblets and drank in unison. The elf let out a small cough and shook his head lightly as he swallowed.

“That does tickle.”

She nodded, taking another sizeable sip of her glass before setting it down and seating herself in a chair to unlace her boots. Astrid had never been a fan of heavy footwear, and at home she preferred to keep her feet bare most of the time, enjoying the feel of plush carpets and cool stone against her toes.

Fenris watched her pull at the laces as he drank more of his wine and took a bite of the apple. “So, what’s the plan?” he asked, taking a seat in the chair across the table from her and chewing.

“We have just about all the provisions we need. I still need to settle some things with Varric tomorrow and get some things from the apothecary, and then we should be ready to go. Isabela is going to take us across the sea to Antiva. We’ll be able to hide there for a time and then head east to Rivain to lay low.”

Fenris didn’t reply immediately, swirling his goblet and staring thoughtfully at the golden liquid sloshing gently against its glass walls. “I’ve been thinking,” he said finally. “If we’re going to be on the run, we might as well make use of our talents.”

“Oh? What did you have in mind? Piracy? Become sellswords and commit unspeakable crimes for the highest bidder?”

“Tevinter,” replied the elf bluntly, setting his glass down and leaning forward as he fixed her with a serious stare.

“Oh.” Astrid’s fingers froze on the laces. “Fenris… are you sure you want to go _there?_ To relive all that? Tevinter is… well, what I think you’re asking here is no small order.”

“I’m not saying we topple the magisters,” he answered, lifting his hands. “Though after Kirkwall, I have no doubt that if anyone could do it, it would be you. But I know we need to lay low, for your own safety.” He balled one hand into a fist, the determination in his tone intensifying. “Think for a moment, though. What if we could disrupt the slave trade and save others from… from what I went through? We might not be able to free them all, but we could make a difference for some. Wouldn’t that be enough to make it worth trying?”

Astrid saw a shadow of pain cross his face at these words, his markings flaring slightly at the mention of his former life. Taking revenge on Hadriana and Danarius hadn’t brought him the satisfaction or closure he’d imagined, but maybe this would. If nothing else, they’d at least be spending their time helping people instead of twiddling their thumbs while the rest of Thedas crumbled into madness.

“All right,” she said after a pause, and she busied herself with her boots again. “If that’s what you want to do, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Really?” Fenris sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised. He looked taken aback at her quickness to agree.

“Yes, really. If it means that much to you, we’ll do it. I had no plans for our travels other than ‘don’t get captured by Templars,’ and you’re right. If we’re going to embark on this big adventure, we may as well do some good in the world.”

“Well, then.” He looked around, unsure of what to do with himself now that he wasn’t having to argue his case. He cleared his throat. “What of tonight? How shall we pass our time?”

“We’ll enjoy this wonderful wine,” said Astrid, lifting her glass to her lips again and giving him a coy look over its rim. “And see where the night takes us.”

Fenris smiled and drained his glass, then poured another and watched as she stood and stepped toward him. He opened his arms in a welcoming gesture, and she sank into his lap, putting an arm around his neck.

“How’s the wound?”

He shrugged. “Still stings a bit now and then, but it seems to be mending much better now that you’ve fixed it up.”

Lifting the corner of his shirt, he exposed the line of stitches across his belly, underneath which a thin line of reddish skin appeared to be healing over. She gestured for him to turn slightly toward the fire and examined it in the light.

“It looks good,” she said, running a slender finger along the sutures. The feeling of her touch sent a frisson down Fenris’s back, and she looked up as he shuddered. “I’m sorry, are your markings tender? Would you rather I didn’t touch you?”

“That’s… not the problem at all,” Fenris answered, going ever so slightly pink. “There is no problem, in fact. It’s just... it’s nice to feel your fingers on my skin again. Especially when none of them are holding needles.”

“Is that so?” she asked, and traced her hand up under his tunic, running her fingers lightly over his chest and turning it all to gooseflesh. He felt the tingling sensation spread from her touch all the way up to his lips, and he flicked his tongue between them, wetting them as he swallowed hard.

Astrid had paused, watching his reaction. Waiting for permission to keep going. He let out a low purr and slid a hand up to her face, running a thumb along her cheek. Then he pulled her gently toward him so her forehead was touching his, and he could feel her exhale against him, the air from her lips warm and scented like wine, mingling with her amber perfume.

“Maker, I have missed you,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. He tipped his jaw upward and welcomed her lips to press against his, and she knew permission had been granted.

Fenris’s head spun as his mouth opened slightly, inviting Astrid’s tongue inside. He wasn’t sure if it was the fancy Orlesian wine or just the intoxicating feeling that came from the pleasure of finally kissing her again, but he felt comfortably drunk as he gripped the soft flesh of her hips, encouraging her to turn and straddle his lap. He fumbled with the belt that cinched her tunic around her waist, fingers trembling, their supper sitting forgotten on the table. Rafe had abandoned his station by the fire and trotted off to find his veal bone again.

Astrid’s hands slid upward under his tunic, coaxing it off him, and he lifted his arms so that she could bring it over his head and toss it behind the chair. His fingers returned to her belt to continue to wrestle with the buckle. After a moment of frustration, he felt her fingers alongside his own, and he let go, watching her undo the buckle with ease and slide the belt from around her middle. Her tunic hung looser on her frame now, and she stepped backward off his lap and slipped out of it.

The shadows cast by her curves stood out in sharp contrast in the firelight as she worked her way out of everything but her smallclothes. Fenris allowed himself to stare, admiring the swell of her breasts at the top of her undergarments, imagining the press of her warm, soft belly against his and the way the generous flesh of her hips and thighs would give under his palms.

Astrid looked up to see his admiring gaze trained on her body. She closed the distance between them, a grin curving her lips as she slid onto his lap, planting the warmth between her legs squarely over his groin. He knew she must be able to feel him growing hard against her clothing. As if to confirm this, she rocked herself backward and then forward again, rubbing herself against him without remorse. He moaned and pulled her tight to his body, planting his lips on her collarbone and trailing gentle kisses over it as his hands reached up to cup her breasts.

The last time—the _only_ time—there hadn’t been much of a lead-up. He’d been too hungry for her, and she had been all too willing to let him hurry. In their haste, there hadn’t been space to savor the moment, to explore one another. The memory of that night, however pleasurable it had been, would forever be soured in his mind. The repercussions of his decision to leave had followed him for all the intervening years, like a ghost, a bitter reminder of the happiness he’d denied himself.

And after he’d come back, well… it had been a much slower burn this time. Hawke had been patient, even when he knew his kisses had left her aching for more, and for that, he was grateful. But now he was ready and in no hurry at all.

One of her hands slipped down between her legs, and for a moment, Fenris’s mind thrilled at the idea of watching her pleasure herself. But rather than slipping past her waistband into her underthings, he felt her fingers working busily at the laces of his leather pants. He sensed their snug pressure give way, and her hand returned to his chest. His mouth had found her neck now, and Astrid tilted her head to expose it further, allowing him to give her skin a sharp nip that made her gasp in surprise.

Smiling, he pulled away, drawing her soft waves of copper hair through his fingers, wafting the warm, familiar aroma of her perfume his way, mixed with the heady scent of her sweat. One hand dropped to the middle of her back, and he began to undo the stays of the binding across her breasts. He freed her of the garment, adding it to the growing heap behind the chair. Her nipples, small and pink, stiffened in the draft of cold air that met them, peeking out through the curtains of hair that fell forward over her shoulders.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, he ran a thumb over one of them, and she gave a shiver of pleasure at his touch. His other hand was still combing lightly through her hair, massaging her scalp softly and working through the silky lengths that poured over skin flushed pink with desire. It was as much for himself as for her, but she closed her eyes and let out a soft sigh as he stroked her temple for another handful.

“Enjoy it while you can,” she murmured, eyes still shut. “It’s getting cut off before we leave.”

“Had a feeling.” His tone matched the sad smile that had crept onto his lips, and he made no effort to mask his disappointment. “But I do intend to make the most of it tonight.”

Astrid leaned in for another deep kiss, wrapping her fingers around the back of his neck. She finally drew back for air after several long moments and looked into his eyes as she traced little circles over his chest with her other hand.

“What do you want, Fenris?” she asked.

“Well, I’d have thought that was fairly obvious,” he said, pressing down on her thighs as he bucked his hips upward, rubbing his hard length against her again. She grinned and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his.

“No, I mean… what do you _want_? Last time we just skipped to the main event. But I don’t want to rush things tonight. What do you _like_?”

Fenris didn’t answer right away, considering the question. “I’m… not sure. I never really had a say in anything I did before. I wasn’t there for my own pleasure.”

Astrid pushed herself backward and looked him in the eye again. She could have slapped herself. What an _impossibly_ stupid question. It was hard to remember sometimes that Fenris had never been with anyone else that he could recall, aside from filling demands made by Danarius and Hadriana.

“Fen, I’m so sorry. That was insensitive of me. I didn’t think.”

But there was no anger on the elf’s face. “Thank you for your concern. But it isn’t necessary. You didn’t intend any malice, and my past isn’t something I want you to feel you have to tiptoe around.”

Relieved, she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. She felt momentarily concerned that she’d killed the mood, but then Fenris’s hands found her breasts again and began to knead their soft flesh.

“Is there anything you think you _might_ like? Something you’d like to try?” she asked, reaching a hand down to press against his pants. His erection jerked at her touch, and her lips quirked up into a devilish smile as she ran her hand firmly along its expanse. He let out another contented purr, closing his eyes.

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy everything you’ve got planned,” he said, leaning back to give her room to work.

“It can’t all just be _my_ plans.”

“If you keep that up, we won’t have long to execute _anyone’s_ plans,” Fenris said, now arching into each stroke, as though his hips had minds of their own.

Astrid stopped, bringing her hands back up to his face. She kissed him again, letting one of her fingers wander up his jawline to trace the point of his long ochre-colored ear and sending a tingle of pleasure crackling through his body.

He pulled back slowly from her, his eyes darting around as he attempted to articulate the words in his brain, which tumbled out of his mouth clumsily. “I suppose I might like… Well, I’ve never had anyone… with their mouth?” His voice trailed upward at the end, as though it were more of a question than a statement.

She smiled and kissed his collarbone. Her lip brushed against one of his markings, and she felt an electric buzz against her flesh as it flared for a fraction of an instant. Fenris let out a soft hiss and then reached to cup the back of her head in his hand, lacing his fingers through her hair again.

“Sorry,” whispered Fenris. “They do that sometimes when I’m… stimulated. It didn’t hurt you, did it?”

“No,” she assured him. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

She trailed more kisses down his chest, avoiding the markings that crossed his body and sliding backward off the chair to her knees. By the time she got to his belly, Fenris was practically panting, suddenly keenly aware of the thump of his heartbeat pulsing in his throat. He arched forward into her touch again, head pressed into the plush embroidered back of the armchair, eyes closed.

“This isn’t going to last very long, Hawke,” he told her.

“That’s fine,” she whispered between kisses, gripping the sides of his leather leggings. He lifted his hips, and she slid them off, tossing them behind her.

He almost stopped her, almost told her no. He’d spent every night for the past several years thinking of their one and only time together. Over and over again, he’d played in his mind all the things he’d want to do to her— _with_ her—if he ever got the chance. They had so many lost nights to make up for.

And now here they were, and all she cared about was pleasing _him_. After _he_ had been the one who walked out. He wasn’t sure he deserved it. In fact, he felt pretty confident he didn’t. He opened his mouth to say something at the same time she opened hers, taking him between her lips and robbing him of his words.

The sound of his resulting moan strummed a throb between Astrid’s legs, but she could wait. She wanted so badly to make him understand that he wasn’t here to serve, that he didn’t exist to make her happy, that his needs weighed just as much as her own.

Curling her fingers along his shaft and slowly stroking up and down, she ran her tongue along the fleshy tip of his erection, licking softly at the sensitive little delta where they joined. She felt the fingers in her hair grip tighter, heard the squeak of skin against wood as his other hand strangled the ornately carved armrest. She pulled at him faster now, knowing he was poised right on the edge, hungry to bring him plummeting over it.

Fenris had never felt anything like this. Their shared night together had been exquisite, but now she had opened the door to sensations he had no idea could exist. His breath caught in his throat as she began to stroke harder, and he bucked his hips in time with her. And then, seconds later, waves of ecstasy came crashing over him, and he let out a growl that gradually transformed into a low cry of pleasure as he spasmed in her mouth. His markings crackled and flashed, but the pain barely registered compared to all the rest—a freefall of rapture that overrode any other input from his senses as his muscles released a flood of warmth that bloomed throughout his body.

Instinctively, Astrid knew when to release, to stop touching him, and she leaned back with a self-satisfied grin on her face as Fenris collapsed into the plush upholstery of the chair. Thoroughly spent, his chest heaved as he looked back at her through the haze of his afterglow, markings still lit up like a Feast Day lantern.

Ignoring the thrumming that still played hot and strong between her legs, she climbed back up to sit on his bare thigh, slinging her crossed legs over the arm of the chair and curling against him as he breathed deeply, trying to slow his racing heart. She ran one hand lazily through his sweat-dampened hair, watching his chest rise and fall, the bulge in his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Eyes still shut, he wrapped an arm around her back, his other hand feeling around for hers. She laced her fingers between his, a simple gesture that was beginning to feel like home to them both. For a long time, they sat there just like that in the flickering light from the fire, until long after her own lust had ebbed away into a warm, contented stillness. She thought perhaps he’d dozed off with her stretched across his lap, but then he spoke to her in a low, sleepy rumble.

“Told you we didn’t have much time.”

She smiled up at him, tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder and wiping a bead of sweat from his temple.

“We have every night for the rest of our lives, Fen.”


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris hadn’t ever spent an entire night with anyone else before, save for the night he’d stayed with Hawke after the battle with the Templars. Lying there paralyzed by pain while Astrid stood vigil and fed him sips of water barely counted, though, as far as he was concerned. That night had seemed to stretch on for years, and he hadn’t been confident the relentless stabbing sensation was ever going to stop. He’d wanted so badly to surrender himself in her arms, but even the feeling of the soft sheets against his back had been nearly unbearable.

He vaguely remembered reaching for her at one point, linking his pinkie finger into hers and feeling grateful for a moment’s contact. But it was a fleeting comfort. After a few seconds, he’d had to let go, curl himself into a ball again and try to breathe through the pain.

If he’d been able to look up, he’d have seen the stream of salty tears trickling over the bridge of Astrid’s nose, staining the cloth of her pillow in a dark circle as they fell.

All in all, it hadn’t been the best night for either of them.

But _this_ , thought Fenris to himself, _this_ was perfection. When he’d finally found the strength to stand again, they’d gathered the remains of their food and carried it to the bed. They’d eaten supper there together, him still completely naked and her half so, both comfortable enough in one another’s presence that they found covering up unnecessary. They’d finished the bubbly Orlesian wine and opened another bottle of less frivolous stuff, which Fenris found he preferred, anyway.

The drink, like so many other things, was something he’d always imagined himself liking—purely because it had been a symbol of a life he’d envied, he now realized. Elegant clothing made from lush fabrics, strange edible delicacies, and apparently effervescent wine were all things he could do without.

He preferred simplicity. A plate of cheese and apples and bread shared on the bed of a beautiful, bare-breasted woman was plenty indulgent enough for him. But Astrid had been positively delighted by the wine, and that, he thought, was worth the full sovereign he’d paid for it.

Now they had brushed the bread crumbs off the bed and laid back together under the warm, soft covers, her head pillowed against his chest, finishing off the second bottle as they talked into the night. His lyrium had finally calmed, no longer glowing or burning, settled now into its usual ever-present dull ache. Astrid was looking at the brands along his arm. She often studied them just like this, her expression a mixture of admiration and condolence.

He was used to people staring. Often it made him feel angry and objectified, like an animal on display. Somehow though, coming from her didn’t bother him so much—perhaps because he knew that his past truly mattered to her, that learning about it was more than some perverse satisfaction of curiosity.

“Would you like to know how the lyrium markings are made?”

She turned to meet his gaze, her eyes widening a bit at his question. Maybe it was the wine making him so blunt, she thought, or perhaps it was something else. Either way, the nonchalance of the question caught her by surprise.

Privately, she wasn’t sure she _did_ want to know, but Fenris asking to open up to her about his past was something Astrid felt she could hardly turn down. He was still healing, airing out the deep internal wounds he bore, and her willingness to hear him was its own kind of salve.

“I’ll always listen to anything you want to tell me,” she answered after a pause.

He took another long sip and flexed his forearm, looking at the white lines that curved over his lean muscles. There had been a time when he couldn’t recall his own ritual with much detail—probably something of a mercy, really. He’d remembered the pain—blinding, white-hot agony and the smell of his own flesh bubbling and burning. But he hadn’t recalled much about the process itself until that first night with Hawke, when the memories began to come back. Bit by bit, they had trickled in, like drops of water slowly filling up a bucket.

“There is a container,” he began, “a metal sarcophagus, golden in color. Very old and ornate, likely from the ancient Imperium. Danarius shut me in, but not before I caught a glimpse of a sword in his hands, with a handle that encompassed a jewel made of pure lyrium. I’m not sure what mechanism he activated, but I could hear latches clanking, locking me inside. And then bolts of magic shot through me, searing the lyrium into my flesh. There was a smell, like... like cooking meat. I must have blacked out because the next thing I remember is waking up in my room several hours later. The pain was incredible. I couldn’t eat or sleep for days.”

“Oh, Fen…” Astrid’s voice trailed off. She had no words for what she felt, having heard this. It explained so much—not only his deep distrust of magic, but little things, too: his dislike for small spaces, for instance, and the way she’d seen him shrink away from lyrium veins when they traveled the Deep Roads. She’d always assumed being near the raw substance had heightened the discomfort his markings brought, and maybe that was part of it, but she felt confident now that a considerable measure of fear had also been a factor. “Maker. I’m so sorry. No wonder you feel the way you do about mages.”

“Well, it doesn’t help,” he conceded. “But that’s not the only reason.” He watched her continue to study the lines that crisscrossed his body, the pity in her expression now outweighing her curiosity.

“Do you hate them?”

The question had been needling at her for some time. She would never admit it to Fenris for fear of sounding insensitive, but she found the brands beautiful, reminding her of the intricately designed tattoos worn by the Dalish. But, of course, tattoos were usually voluntary.

“Do you mean my markings?” he asked, turning to face her now. “Or mages?”

Her stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. She’d been referring to the former, but now that he’d asked the question…

Over the years, Fenris had made no effort to hide his opinion on magic or the people who had been born to wield it. That he’d grown to have feelings for one of them had surprised everyone, himself most of all, and it did seem to have softened his judgments a little.

Still, he often continued to voice his general distrust for anyone who could harness magic. This frequently left Astrid with an uneasy squirming in her belly, wondering if there were hidden caveats to his affections— _“I care for you, in spite of…” “except for…” “with conditions…”_

“Both, I suppose,” she answered after a moment, though again, she wondered if she genuinely wanted to know the answer.

“My markings are part of me. I cannot despise them without despising myself. As much discomfort as they have caused me, they eventually brought me to you. Every terrible memory I have is tempered by the realization that I am only here because of them.”

Astrid felt a lump rising in her throat. The idea that she was his only solace for having had his flesh carved up and set alight... She’d always considered Fenris a bit of a cynic, but if that wasn’t looking on the bright side of things, she wasn’t sure _what_ was.

There was a long pause as he considered how to answer the second question. “I don’t hate _mages_ ,” he began, frowning, forming his thoughts with care. He knew that his words on this subject had sometimes— _often_ —hurt her in very real ways.

_“What has magic touched that it does not spoil?”_

The words echoed in his mind. He could still picture Astrid’s betrayed expression—the way she’d swallowed back the tears that had sparkled at the edges of her steel-blue eyes. It had been burned into his mind, as indelible as the lyrium brands on his skin.

He kissed the top of her head, carding his fingers through her hair. A gesture that was just as much to comfort himself as it was for her.

“I hate _magic_ ,” he continued. “Mages are just people. I could quite easily have been born with magic in my blood. It’s not something one chooses. It would be like hating someone because of the color of their skin, or because they are elf, or dwarf, or human. I have seen enough of that kind of prejudice, and I don’t intend to be part of it. But the temptation to use these powers for selfish means—to justify blood magic—it’s more than most people can withstand. Look at Anders. He saved our lives countless times in the Deep Roads, healed me without question when we fought the Qunari, even though he knew what I thought of him. But he _willingly_ let a demon share his body.”

His voice had grown cold, the words seething from between clenched teeth.

“It pushed him to slaughter a sanctuary full of innocent people. And he put you in a position where you had to make an impossible choice. Were he alive still, I cannot see how he could have ever expected forgiveness for that.”

“And Merrill,” he went on, gesturing with one hand. “She is _blinded_ by willful ignorance. She considers her brand of blood magic benign, above rebuke, because she believes she uses it for _good_. And where did that get her? Her Keeper is dead, and she is a pariah. I fear that one day she, too, will meet a gruesome fate, and take others down with her. Magic leaves very little untainted in the end, it seems.”

“And what of me?” Astrid asked softly. “What of my father? My sister?”

“You are spirited, strong-willed. And underneath all the questionable wit and swagger, your heart is incredibly kind. Attributes I suspect your father and sister shared. I know you will not be easily tempted. But still, I worry for you. No mage is immune to possession.”

“Plenty of mages die without succumbing to demons,” she said defensively. “How can you say magic ruins everything when plenty of perfectly benevolent mages die of old age?”

“I pray you never yield to such forces, but even you must see how you have already been impacted by magic’s destruction. Your parents fled to Ferelden because your mother married a mage. You sailed back to Kirkwall to escape the Blight, and your sister died in the process. And your mother…” He trailed off, knowing that neither of them wanted to speak further on that particular matter. “Astrid, you can’t pretend that magic has had no ill effect on you. It’s torn your family apart.”

She whirled around to confront him now, her eyes fixed on his.

“And that brought _me_ to _you_ , Fenris. Your brands and your former masters, my family running from shame, and then the Templars… all of it brought us _here_ , to this city. To this _bed._ Maybe it’s the Maker’s divine providence, if you want to believe that. Maybe it’s destiny, or maybe it’s just blind sodding chance, but whether you want to admit it or not, magic is the reason we are sharing this night together. Magic is the reason we are sharing our _lives_ together.” She jabbed a finger at his chest, her nose crinkling as she scowled at him. “Don’t you dare tell me in one breath that you’re grateful your past brought you here, and in the next breath tell me yet again that magic will eventually destroy everything it touches. Because that also means _you and me_. And I refuse to accept that. _Not for one Maker-damned second, Fen._ ”

The elf opened his mouth as if to respond, but found that words escaped him. The shells of Astrid’s ears had colored themselves a deep crimson. He’d seen her unleash angry words like this plenty of times before, but never at _him_. It was not a feeling he relished, and though it pained him to accept it, he found himself agreeing with her verdict.

He let her words hover in the air for a while before he responded, studying the churning wine he was rotating around in his glass again. “Tell me, Hawke,” he said quietly. “Are you always going to be this infuriatingly _right_ about things?”

“Yes!” she blurted, furrowing her brow.

Fenris looked at her for a second, then pursed his lips, bowed his head into his free hand and tried to hold in a laugh, failing spectacularly. His shoulders shook as his low chuckle reverberated in the stone bedroom.

“It’s not funny,” Astrid protested, though he was making it increasingly hard to keep a straight face. She scoffed. “This is a _serious_ _discussion_.”

But moments later, she was also trying to tamp down a grin. It was a _little_ funny, she supposed.

“Well, at least you know now,” she told him. “If you just give up the fight early from now on, it’ll make everything much easier.”

“I should’ve learned that from watching you tear apart all those darkspawn.” He smiled at her, drained the last of his wine, and set his glass on the bedside table. His expression had changed from amusement to one of genuine respect. “You certainly don’t surrender easily. Thank you for that. Because that’s _also_ why we’re here now.”

His wine-stained lips found hers, and after a soft kiss, he returned his head to his pillow and closed his eyes.

“Goodnight, Fen,” Astrid murmured, finding his hand with hers.

His lips curled into a contented grin, eyes still closed. “Goodnight, Hawke.”

Within a few minutes, his breath slowed to a regular rhythm, and she knew he’d drifted off. She propped herself on one elbow and lay there for several minutes, watching his chest rise and fall. He looked utterly at ease, for the first time Astrid could ever recall.

Eventually, she curled herself against him and slipped into slumber. Their bodies lay unmoving, hands intertwined, until long after the dawn's pale golden sunlight had begun to spill into the tall windows of the estate.


End file.
